


McGonagall’s Ancestral Aegis

by remarkable1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Full English, Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ancestors, Camaraderie, Caretaking, Christmas Eve, Colleagues - Freeform, Cooking, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Friendship/Love, Gentleness, Help, Humming, Jokes, Magic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Moral Lessons, No Smut, Older Minerva McGonagall, Older Severus Snape, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Romantic Friendship, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Sentimental, Singing, Smoking, Subliminal Messages, Teasing, Yum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remarkable1/pseuds/remarkable1
Summary: Fireside Ghost Story with a twist! This was written years ago for a fest, the recipeint being tjs_whatnot. I changed the title from "Mission Possible" to "McGonagall's Ancestral Aegis" as I feel it fits the theme of the fic a little more.Snape and McGonagall try to drink one another under the table. A very inebriated Snape has an otherworldly visitor. Minerva helps him dissemble the events from his drunken experience.
Relationships: Minerva McGonagall & Severus Snape
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	McGonagall’s Ancestral Aegis

A/N: *The Garvault Hotel is a real place in Scotland by the foot of Beinn Griam Mor in Sutherland, Scotland. I do not have any historical information on the hotel, other than to use its location and name as a frame of reference and setting for the story.

Severus Snape was drunk. No, merely ‘drunk’ wasn’t the right word. He was hammered, smashed, pole-axed, out of it, ravaged, tanked and liquored up out of his blasted, pickled and brilliant mind. 

Christmas Eve at Minerva’s isolated cottage by the foot of Beinn Griam Mor in Sutherland, Scotland, was only a Disillusioned, stone’s throw away from the famed Garvault Hotel.* Many an adventurous Muggle had come prowling ‘round over the years, suddenly beset with an almost inexplicable feeling that they had left the water running back in their hotel loo, lost their keys or felt sick to their stomachs. Most unfortunate.

Over the course of the evening he’d managed to stay conscious, but only barely. Minerva, ever able to drink him under the table, had seemed to succumb to her bed at some point, only to reappear in her chair before his bleary eyes. It was rather sudden. One moment he _thought_ she had said – slurred- that she was going to bed and _‘do try not to throw up all over my great-grandmother’s rug.’_ So far, he hadn’t. He’d thrown up over his own boots on his way to the loo, and somehow, his spell to clean it up had instead painted the wall with magically hardened vomit. It had been terribly funny at the time, but now, the apparition in front of him was frowning in such a way that he felt like a little boy in trouble with his hand caught in the biscuit tin before dinner.

“Schtop – schtop schtaring you – harriden,” he drawled, taking a mindless drink from whatever had landed in his hand at his latest swipe from Minerva’s liquor cabinet. “Awr you – you goin’ tah drink schom mores with me?” He squinted horribly bloodshot eyes at her, and wondered when she’d spelled her hair red, as it had been grey at the start of the evening.

“Nah? Awr, fine them – then,” he corrected, sighing, shaking his messy black head of thinning hair at her, in a maudlin sort of way. “Yah got tah amit, admit, is nawt mah fault she brogue up wit’ me. ‘Twas them asholes a tha’ pub. Yep. ‘Twas them. I seen’em thar, ‘wit they fingers, tha’ dirty fuggers, ‘an they fingers twere all ovah ‘er bawdy.”

Severus attempted to stand, and abruptly fell backwards into his chair. He snorted and laughed hysterically for a full minute, draining the dregs from his bottle before throwing it into the fire. The glass exploded spectacularly and he broke into a full-bodied belly laugh again, sniggering and out of breath by the time the humor had run its course. Awareness seeped into his brain around the edges and he flopped his head forward at the witch across from him. “Why dun ya’ drink schom more? I canna’ finnash tha’ ‘ole goddamn stash bah myshelf.”

The young, freckled, red-haired beauty shook her head smartly and pointed a finger at him, waggling it back and forth. She clapped her hands together three times, but created no sound. Severus was sure he was hallucinating, to some extent, but couldn’t figure out why his old colleague kept changing her appearance. He decided, with purely drunken logic, that she was trying to fuck with him.

“Yer’ nah gonna win. I’ma win. Done looshing bets tah ya’. Yer’ sheetin’ – cheatin’. I dunno wha’ poshion yer drinkin’, but ish not gonna count. Nope,” he emphasized amazingly clearly, allowing his head to fall back to stare at the unfinished grains of wood on the ceiling. The designs seemed to crawl into each other until they danced and formed an intricate patchwork of nonsense that slowly, combined with the heat from the fire and continued silence from his drinking partner, lulled him into a catatonic stupor.

* * *

Unaware from that point forward, of the passage of time, Severus only dimly recalled the Scottish lass hovering over him, applying a blessedly cold cloth that smelled of herbs, woman, and home. His dreams drifted back to his childhood and stolen moments with his mother in the garden. A smaller, more innocent Severus played among the flowers and vegetables while his mother weeded, humming a mindless tune. 

Sometime later, something woke him, and a warm broth was poured down his throat and when he choked, found himself turned onto his side, draining vomit and snot from his facial orifices before blissfully blacking out once more. 

The last time he blearily opened his eyes, still drunk but mildly aware of his surroundings due to a bludger beating his skull from the inside out. The mystery woman shushed his immediate protest and wandlessly moved him to the guest bedroom where he was undressed, cleaned and tucked in like a babe in a cradle. A foul potion was forced down his throat, but his head miraculously cleared even as consciousness faded into a peaceful slumber from the hidden sedative within.

xx  
xx

The sound and smell of a full English hit his nostrils at the same time a beam of persistent sunlight pierced Severus Snape’s eyelids. Bracing himself for the after-effects of an over-indulgent Christmas Eve, he cautiously opened one eye, than the other, gingerly wiggling fingers and toes before sitting up fully. Nothing. He was right as rain, as if he’d never touched a drop the night before. Whatever Minerva had forced down his throat, he was grateful for her mercy. He still had essays to grade when he returned to Hogwarts, and students to supervise so Flitwick could re-join his family for a late Boxing Day celebration.

Dressing in clean pajama pants and t-shirt, he put a terry-cloth robe over his person and padded barefoot into Minerva’s small country kitchen.

The iron-grey haired witch smiled from ear to ear, her teeth practically gleaming as she turned around and caught sight of him. Clapping her hands, a full tray appeared before her and floated to the table. She gestured to him, than to it, expectantly. “Happy Christmas, Severus,” she bid him, to which he merely nodded graciously. When he continued to stand in the same spot, merely staring at the tray, she chided, “Well, go on, then. Have a seat. I haven’t gone to all this trouble just to have you stare at a tray of food.” She eyed him suspiciously when he nodded once more and sat, tucking into his breakfast with nary a grimace nor word for her expected benefit.

Minerva’s eyes narrowed when Severus evidenced no ill effects from their night of generous libation. “Severus Snape! If I didn’t know you to be a mostly honorable man, I would swear you’ve gone back on our wager and dosed yourself sober.” Here she paused, and still demonstrating no reaction, she continued to scold, “I don’t know what you were thinking, or even if you were _able_ to think, but YOU are going to clean up that – that –” she pointed at the wall behind him, “horror off of my wall by nightfall.”

Severus looked up at her from under the stringy clump of hair hanging in his eyes. He pushed it back slowly, set down his silverware and reached for a glass of cold pumpkin juice. After draining its contents and pouring a cuppa, he deliberately lifted a sausage and took a big, juicy bite, chewing slowly for effect. When he swallowed, amused at her impatient toe-tapping, he cleared his throat and put her out of her misery. “Oh, you have no cause for worry. Your precious wall shall be as it was by mid-afternoon.” He took a sip of tea, breathing in deeply as he contemplated his response to her prior accusation. “You believe I’ve employed trickery within your home away from home? On the contrary. It is my understanding that not only did you completely spell or dose yourself into, pardon me, a very attractive young witch, but proceeded to play nursemaid to my person and tuck me into bed. So you see, unless you expect me to believe last night was all a dream, I win our wager. You may put the case of Scotch by my chest of drawers over New Years. My new password is ‘Larkspur.’” Almost primly, he wiped at the corners of his mouth with a napkin and started on his eggs.

Minerva gaped at the man, unsure whether he was taking the piss, still drunk, or entirely sober and serious. She decided on the latter as an inkling took root in her clever brain. Serving herself, she sat to his left and began to eat, not answering him until they were both properly stuffed and leaning back in their chairs, sipping contentedly on hot tea.

Severus glanced at her every so often, his patience rewarded when she broke silence.

“You’re the first one to see her, that I know of, in more than fifty years. We didn’t think she was around anymore, but I suppose she was waiting for the right one to come along.

Severus decided to go with it, whatever it was, that Minerva was trying to skirt around. “Her? You mean to say, you,” he smirked, egging her on. When she didn’t rise to his bait, he frowned. Her green eyes bore into his like a diamond chiseling away at the formerly steely assuredness of his fading memory. Arching a brow, he set down his silverware once more and steepled his fingers together, tapping them against his chin, elbows on the table. “Alright, you’ve got my attention. Do go on.”

Satisfied for the moment, Minerva continued, “My great, great, great, great, great grandmother, Niahm McGonagall, has haunted this place for as many generations. She’s rumored to take care of the ill, injured and dying that have stayed here over the years. The last one to see her was my grandfather, and we all thought he was a wee bit daft in his final days.” She stared straight ahead, clearly no longer seeing Severus, but a distant memory that existed only in the passage of time. “I’m puzzled as to why she would show herself to you,” she added almost as an afterthought, her tone soft and reminiscing.

Severus slammed his fist on the table and stood violently, kicking his chair backwards onto the floor in his haste. The movement startled his host and she gasped, shaken from her reverie.

“My word! What in Merlin’s name is bothering you _now_? You, of all people, should be used to ghosts after living in that drafty old castle for forty years.” Minerva thinned her lips in disapproval at his scowl and motioned to him once more. “Oh, do sit down. You’re making a fuss over nothing.” When he still didn’t take his seat, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the table, she slammed down her own set of cutlery and stood. “For heaven’s sakes, just spit it out!”

“Spit it out, she says,” Severus sneered, speaking to her directly, but indirectly. “Oh, it is, indeed, a puzzle, an oddity, as to why a beautiful witch would show herself to an ugly, dried-up old has-been such as Severus Snape. Have your fun. The rest of that lot back at that drafty old lump of rock had their jollies years ago. It’s your turn.” Severus held out his arms dramatically, thrusting out his chest. “Go on then, I won’t even defend myself. You’re about twenty years too late, but who am I to stop you from finally showing your true colors?!” he asked rhetorically, almost fanatically, his face red with rage. His chest rose and fell from breathing hard while every single line of age seemed etched garishly in stark contrast to his still-unnaturally pale skin.

Minerva’s shoulders sagged and her eyes misted over, her lips trembling ever so slightly. A step at a time, she gingerly moved from her position and then, surprising her houseguest, pressed her thin frame against him, hands wrapped around his waist and face practically buried in his chest. For a long, long time they seemed to stand there, two old friends, rivals, colleagues and one-time lovers, at odds with everything and nothing in the space of a private moment. Then he expelled a great breath and relaxed, the tension bleeding into the surrounding room, arms coming around to stroke the long braid trailing over her shoulder. “Oh, Severus. My dear, dear Severus. After all this time, you still expect the worst from those who love you the most.”

Severus was glad she couldn’t read his mind, for he felt supremely stupid and foolish at his outburst. _Of course_ she hadn’t meant it that way, but the taunts of the Marauders still rose up from the ugly depths of his past to haunt him at his most vulnerable and he swore silently that, even if it killed him, he would yet conquer the abusive legacy painted on his long-abused psyche.

When both of their bodies loosened sufficiently, Minerva pulled away and began to clean up, gracefully moving beyond the awkward moment. Severus breathed his unheard thank you and lit a cigarette, moving to the cracked window at the front of the cottage. “How did she die?” he threw out randomly, taking a drag and exhaling smoothly. “She appeared quite young. Although I did not hear her speak, she hummed a tune that seemed familiar, but I can’t quite place the origin.”

“Hum a bar or two?” Minerva asked casually, pretending to be busy wiping the same bit of table over and over again.

Without further prompting, Severus took another drag and then exhaled as his rich baritone filled the room, lending an almost magical quality to the tune as the smoke slipped from his nostrils in curling tendrils. He hummed a bit more, then paused and hummed the refrain, stopping in the middle, stating, “That’s all I can remember. I was rather indisposed at the time, you understand.”

If Minerva knew Severus - and she knew Severus, she could well imagine how ‘indisposed’ he really was. “That is a tune supposedly composed by some long-dead ancestor of mine and passed down from mother to daughter, or son, until now,” she said a bit sadly. “It will die with me, the last of my line.”

“You could always teach it to some of the students. You know they would produce a concert out of anything you taught to them. They worship the ground you walk on. Flitwick would probably have baby Grindylows at the chance to have the choir perform anything sentimental.”

Minerva didn’t dispute his fact. Many of the students had grown up hearing the legends of the last war as bedtime stories, told to them from their parents since the cradle. “Perhaps,” she agreed noncommittally, beginning to hum a few bars before falling silent once more.

“Go on,” Severus urged, stubbing out his cigarette on the sill and flicking it from the window crack. “I’d like to hear the rest.” He strode leisurely to the table and took Minerva’s hand in his own, running a thumb over her aging skin. She would always be one of the true treasures in his life, even if he could never reveal his innermost thoughts and feelings to her. In his heart, he was sure she understood the small but meaningful measure.

“If you insist,” she replied almost shyly, clearing her throat. “It’s been years…”

“It will be perfection,” he insisted, squeezing her hand lightly.

She closed her eyes and began to hum, her Scottish brogue almost a suggestion within the notes, and he also closed his eyes, drawing her close. They swayed together as Minerva hummed bar after bar, from refrain to melody and back again, until the song was finished, and still their bodies swayed together in unspoken acceptance and harmony.

In a corner of the room, a red-haired witch smiled and slowly faded from view, at peace now that her final mission had been accomplished, and she could now rest with her ancestors for eternity.

fin


End file.
